


Lonesome Road

by Random_Moroccan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Character, F/M, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mercenary Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Plagueis took and trained Anakin and now he haunts him in more than one way, References to Depression, Sith Anakin Skywalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Moroccan/pseuds/Random_Moroccan
Summary: A boy with no Mother, a Sith with no Master and a Mercenary with no goals, Darth Vader is a 16-years old boy who has been cast adrift by the forces of the universe.Miserable, alone and with no dreams of a better future. He walks the only path that is known and mastered by him, war, Hoping that one day his wretched life would come to an abrupt end.Unfortunatly for him and fortunatly for others, the Galaxy - and the Force - is not done with him at all.*  *  *[This Fanfic got finally reworked, errors got deleted, text got smoothed out, Anakin's personality was too. So, if you were put off by the frankly read-breaking (game-breaking but for reading amaright?) faults, I would recommend you give it another go.]
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Ahsoka Tano & Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala/Darth Vader, Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, eventual - Relationship
Comments: 27
Kudos: 116





	1. A Man and His Road

**Author's Note:**

> Couple MAJOR notes:
> 
> \- Anakin was born years in advance before the orginial timeline, so has double his age.  
> \- We are still a couple years before the events of SW: The Phantom Menace. (And by a couple years I mean 2-3).  
> \- He doesn't know his real name, nor does he remember his mother. (He knows he is from Tatooine though).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN UPDATED AND FLESHED OUT AS IN THE: <<16/12/2020>>

** Despepulchri Sector**

**Location: Shiritoku Way - Far Reaches of the Outer-Rim - 9 Parsecs away from the Endor Prime Outpost**

**_The_ _Greater Despepulchri Realm_** ****

**Status: Absolute Monarchy; politically Unstable.**

**Cause: Rebellions, Uprisings, Civil disorder.**

* * *
    
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
    

One can always wonder about how different choices may lead to other paths, thousands of different ones, during a sentient’s lifetime that are more or less desirable. The possibilities are indeed truly endless, if one allows himself to think of it. 

To know joy, to have a fruitful life free of destruction, perhaps even have a progeny? 

Truly wonderful the life of a freeman is. 

Perhaps if one wasn’t taken by a Sith lord and trained as a weapon of mass destruction since his, well... _entire life_ , one could have ended up as a scientist, engineer or even an artist?

It would have been peaceful life... 

A boring one too. 

Even if he wanted it, wanted that life that eludes him, that taunts him from afar, he doubts he can mentaly accept it now. All that comfort, the lack of tension, of death and despair.

After all, wasn’t he born as a fighter, a soldier? 

Born as a slave, grown as a Sith only to be abandonned and to become a mercenary, a trooper. The Perfect Trooper in fact.

What an improvement. Truly. 

At least the job comes with its perks, going from system to system allows one to see a great deal of biomes after all, not to mention the fauna, flora and the action (and of course the money).

He has seen a great number of wonders over the course of his carrier as a “soldier of fortune”. Great poisonous jungles with Apex Predators that would make any lesser beings freeze at the sight of it like the **Wyyyschokks of Kashyyk** , venomous spiders the size of speeders. Harsh deserts home of hidden dangers like the gigantic **Sandworms and Sarlaccs** of Tatooine that can eat you whole, and marshlands containing carnivorous pack-hunting fishes like the **Ssskah of Trandosha** , who have the slight inconveniance of going into a state of frenzy at the smallest sense or taste of blood.

At this point, even, it wouldn’t be a lie if he said that he has seen death from all possible angle. Like men dying without knowing it from the worst insidious possible parasites to entire squads of troops being instantly vaporized by the highest tech artillery money can buy.

Despite all of this (not that he didn't or doesn't enjoy the action and the danger, in fact nowadays he lives for that) he doesn't regret it in any way. His multiple 'jobs' allowed him to slowly act on his dream, his only dream. The one think that wasn't ripped apart and tossed into the bin where his naivety and foolish nature currently resides. Indeed, he has seen the Galaxy far and wide, perhaps not literally (that would take more than a lifetime) but he has seen enough in the space of four years or so to understand its true nature.

And his Master was right, as he always was.

It is an arena, a battleground, a constant fight between the living, full of filth, poverty, corruption, decadence and much more.

Laws are not respected by their own makers who live in their own bubbles, decadent cities cut off from the real world where all the riches of the Galaxy flow. And in the mean time the good, the kind and the innocent are enslaved and exploited for their flesh in more than one way until they drop dead.

Pity to the delusional and dreamer who attempt to muster forces to fight back against these greater evils, for those who fly too close to the sun will undoubtedly twist and fall, only to join "those-with-the-power".

Ironically, the Galaxy finished the work his Master sough hard to achieve since he "saved" him from that hellhole of a planet. It took what was left of his good hearted nature and will, smiled, and crushed it and what was left of the part of his heart who desperatly sought for a light in the dark until there was nothing but ashes, and from that point on, he was reborn into something far far more powerful and dangerous. 

Only for him to spend his newly gained powers on making a fortune through killing heads of state, participating in civil wars and other interplanetary conflicts as a mercenary/assassin in the most isolated parts of space where nobody cares if, for example, a warlord blew up an urban center with all of its population to mask his retreat from another warlord.

The money he earns is spent on the few things that still matters to him: blasters, ships, alcohol, toolkits and mechanic parts plus, not to mention, high-quality crayons and flimsy notepads. All of these things of course, don’t intermix well for a variety of reasons (and led to hazardous situations that may or may not have led to the death of many a man but that is beside the point).

Would Plagueis be proud of him? His deadly experiment being an alcoholic mercenary with no sense of self-preservation and no other passions beside drawing, mechanics and leading battle? 

Yes. 

No. 

Maybe. 

However, if there is one thing he is sure about. It's that his Master (Wherever he is right now) would find him an extremely curious being from a purely academic view (as he always did). And if he deemed that the subject of his apprentice's paradoxical evolution - that is, becoming both weaker and stronger at the same time- was important enough (which would undoubtedly be the case) he would proceed to analyse his psyche by exploring his brain with the Force (among other tools) before putting his conclusions on a holocron so that a millennium latter some force user could get his hand on _“Why is Vader psychotic, a Scientific look from the Dark Side Part 7”._

What a "father" of the standard year. 

Truly. 

Well at least he found something to drink to now, To Darth Plagueis, Sith Lord, Political Mastermind, Genius Economic Wizard and Father of the Year. 

* 

As Vader readies himself for yet another night of drunken madness, withdrawing from his battered all-black military trench coat a cantina filled to the brim with the planet’s local moonshine, he hears the grass behind him crunch ever so slightly, and, as a reflex, drops his standard issued container immediately for his two holstered blasters, a self-modified DL-44 (affectively nicknamed “the Broomhandle” for its grip) and a high powered six-shooter slug thrower (highly effective against energy shielded opponents and another non-physical armor).

In the blink of an eye both blasters find themselves unholstered in the hands of their owner while the cantina falls to the ground letting the precious and _illicit_ liquid go to waste. 

As for the mind of said owner it instantly fell into its all too familiar life-or-death instincts. 

Identification. Elimination. By the books. 

Turning to face his opponent with both of his blasters drawn he can only notice that the target is neither armed nor shows any intent to violence, interesting, where was he already? 

Ah, yes, the camp!

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s me Kirryl!” says the shadowy figure in a panicked, broken Outer-Rim Spacer basic.

Through the darkness of night, he starts distinguishing the features of this individual. A young human male, a few years older than him holding a ration pack in one hand and a cylindrical can in another. 

“I do not know of any man that goes by the name of Kirryl.” He throws in response, one that is distorted by the vocoder integrated to his Mandalorian helmet - gifted to him by relatively old friends. 

“T-the Sergent sent me, you know, the ol-old trandoshan, he said and I quote: You need something else to consume besides alcohol, and it would be a shame to lose you so far.” 

“The old bastard grew a heart.” he mumbles to himself; guess somethings do change in life. “Alright, rookie, drop the stuff beside the fire camp.” He utters more clearly for the recruit to hear. 

With a nod the young man advances quickly to the camp fire set by Vader, visibly shaken by the fact that he almost shot and blasted. He is no veteran, that is for sure, Gods forbid that this is his first campaign. 

* 

Today’s special is an open can of an unknown, foreign, salted meat cooked in its packed grease. If he had a bit of condiments and bread, he could probably pull something half decent out of what he can only assume be a recently expired ration. 

At least it's not rotten. 

Yet. 

The-planned-drink-of-the-night, unfortunately, is not local moonshine anymore, but local melted ice. 

At least the water is clean. 

Once the canned ration is properly heated, and ready to eat, he allows himself to remove his helmet, letting his dirty-blonde hair and scarred face be exposed to the cold-borderline-freezing air of this world’s mountain chain. 

It was truly beautiful and spectacular, the great white mountain caps covered in snow, piercing the skies, standing against both the elements of nature and time... 

How many generations, how many centuries of people have been born and would be born, live and pass before these imperial formations of stone fall against the inexorable tide time? 

Thinking about it now, these mountains would be good to draw. 

Later though, food first. 

And so, he began plunging his spoon, taking bites out of the warm patty meat, completely forgetting that next to him was this young boy - who was older than him by some standard years, but experience outranks everything so in truth he is older than the recruit - that brough him sustenance. 

Well, until his attention was drawn to his face which seemed to be looking at him like some indescribable piece of art. Which is interesting to say the least, as typically he was viewed through either fear or respect, or both in the same time despite his own age.

He was about to ask why the rookie was looking at him with such a revering look when the latter beat him to it. 

“So, it's you? You're Vader?” The Greenie spoke with an admirative tone reflecting the looks of his face. 

“Yes.” He replied with the blandest of tones, not liking where this talk was already going.

“I heard of you; you know.” 

“Is that so?” Of course it was a rhetorical question, everyone in the camp knew him, and he knew everyone in the camp. It was a matter of... personal security.

“Yeah, the troops keep talking about how you have these special powers that make you an unkillable beast, like a wizard or something. And you have this sword made out of plasma that can cut through walls like butter? Is it true that you faced dozens of troops all by yourself and won? How did you do that? Also why do they call you Lord are you a noble or something?”

“Alright, the point is taken" He cut him off. "The rumors you hear are not unfounded as all myths have their roots in reality, but do not believe what you do not see or you will be made a fool. Now, perhaps you should stop asking so many questions before you begin to... choke on them.” 

That cooled the atmosphere of the campfire immediately, how fortunate of him to have the good sense to let a man finish his dinner and drink in peace. If he added one more sentence to his infernal barrage of questions, he would have found himself gasping for air. 

And yet. 

The curiosity of the kid, his wonder, his amazement... 

It would cause him much pain, which he wasn't at all prepared to face. 

The old Sarge probably sent him here to get a life lesson from him. 

What a bastard. Probably doesn’t want to have more blood on his hands while being so close to retirement. 

Very well. 

Taking the last of his fresh water in one gulp, he gently coughed twice to get the attention of the rookie on the other side of the fire. 

“Rookie" He said with a clear, affirmative tone. "Listen and listen well because I prefer to not repeat myself twice over. War is not something to be trifled with, I believe you are new to the company, right?” Kirryl nods positively, so he continued. “This camp is full of men who lost their will to live a long time ago or simply don’t care about dying. At this point even, I'll say most of them stopped caring about credits. The only thing they life for is fighting and the way of life that comes with it. And seriously, if you believe you can make your way in this group and cash in some credit than you are seriously mistaken, and are more of foolish person than a spacer trying to get a bit of money and glory.

If you choose this road, the only thing you'll ever find is pain, that I can assure you. And not a lot of people can claim to have lived that sort of pain and get out relatively unharmed."

With some luck this little impromptue speech of his would go through the thick skull of youth and idiocy. 

Which unfortunately isn’t the case, what he senses from the boy through the Force is nothing short but anger and annoyance (which he physically hides quite well). If anything was achieved, it's that he both got a rise out of him and fanned out the will of the boy to prove himself to a lesser aged individual.

And yet he doesn’t speak, probably doesn’t want to retorque on a superior. Very well, at least he is polite, and for that he shall go undamaged.

But if he can’t hear good advices from an experienced person that maybe the reality of the situation will stimulate that brain of his before a plasma bolt makes his heart flatline. 

“Before you vacate to other occupations, which you _will_ do once I finish speaking." He continues. "Tomorrow morning, we are about to go through that mountain chain which you see before your very eyes and try to storm a city located on the other side of the valley, where the rebellious governor is presumably present. Until then you still have a chance to desert and trade your rifle for a plowshare and your detonators for your special someone, and trust me many here do not have the chance to do that anymore, you would do well to remember that."

Employers always tends to send the men they recruit in the most perilous and dangerous missions that nobody - even in their own armed forces - wants to lead and accomplish, and although it may seem counter-intuitive to use experienced men as cannon fodder at first, it is in fact quite practical. Firstly, because mercenary bands have a reputation of success to uphold - so that they don’t get outclassed in the ‘private army market’ - and secondly because they are only paid _after_ the contract is ended. This of course, always results in situations where the employers are paying less than originally negotiated because there are simply less men _alive_ to pay. 

Such is life, unfair and unforgiving. 

Marking a pause to put the emphasis on what was just said and taking the time to make eye contact with the boy to drive in the notion that he was commiting a massive mistake _voluntarily_ and that he still had time to escape from a miserable life. Vader finally allows himself to speak to dispense that annoying excuse of an adventurer who won't know what good of a life he had until he looses it.

"You are now free to go.” 

“Yes, Mi Lord.” Kirryl says as a goodbye in the most indifferent of tones as he slowly disappears into the shadows of the night to join the rest of the troops at the main camp, leaving Vader to his occupations. 

Yet again he is alone, at peace, bathed only by the heat, crackles and light of the small fire that he continuously nurtures by throwing a few pieces of wood at it from time to time. 

As he snuggles into his sleeping bag, preparing to sleep off the harsh night, he cannot help himself but take one of his flimsy notepads and crayons and start drawing the illuminated mountains whom reflect the glow of a Galaxy’s worth of stars. 

The only sound piercing the fire-camp's silence that night is his sudden laughs and scoffs, for the more he starts pondering on his situation the more ridiculous it seems, what started as a typical night of remembrance of a long gone past became a night of aid for a foolish weak soul that doesn't deserve the latter anyway, and... drawing. 

At least he achieved what he sought after, peace and rest, however fleeting they are, for he knows that Death yet again is but a few hours away.
    
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
    


	2. To Become a Sith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: A YOUNG VADER IS BEING TORTURED  
> THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN UPDATED AND FLESHED OUT AS IN THE: <<16/12/2020>>

_Pain._

_In the all consuming darkness that was this room, he was in so much pain._

_Opening his eyes, yet again, and taking a minute or so to ajust to the room's light, he found himself in his master’s training and combat chamber where he usually trained in the arts of lightsaber combat, sitting, tied, to a metalic chair with an electric collar on his neck, that was restricting his breathing, but also, dishing out a considerable volume of electric current through his body which was trembling as it struggled to continously absorbed it._

_In front of him was the one and only Darth_ _Plagueis, His Master and Teacher,_ _holding a metalic cube of sorts and scrutinizing him with his deadly yellow eyes._

_From the looks of it, it seems that he was once again being tought a lesson. And pain seems to be on the menu this day._

_“Ah, young Vader, you are finally awake. Good. We may continue our session.” Said the Munn with his Muunish high class-scholarly way of speech that was so unique to him. “But before we restart it, I must make sure your loss of consciousness didn’t affect your capacity to learn. So." He asked. "What is our lesson Lord Vader?”_

_Immediatly he knew what to answer. His Master was no sadist, everything said and done had a goal and nothing was left to loss. Even brutal experiments such as this one._

_“Using. Pain. To power you.” He managed to spit out with a considerable_ _amount_ _of effort._

_“That is partially correct, but it will do for now. Now please, I will need your_ **_FULLEST_ ** _attention for the upcoming event and it goes without saying that if I do not have that you shall suffer the consequences of your failure.” He said as a matter of factly._

_And so, despite the pain coursing through his body, he forced himself to focus on every word and move his Master made. Noticing the smallest of smiles on the Munn’s face he deduced that his efforts where satisfactory._

_“Very good Lord Vader. Let it be known that you are pushing your body above and beyond levels adult humans could only endure for only limited amounts of time._

_Now to the lesson._

_You must understand that there are two types of pain that a Sith can use to his advantage while channeling the Dark Side of the Force._

_Firstly, you have physical pain which you are currently experiencing. The electricity coursing through your body results in the latter sending a great amount of chemical signals to your brain. These types of signals, once translated, results in you feeling that way. Ergo: Feeling the pain._

_Normally such signals are designed in a way to provoke a flight response, to make you cease, or re-evaluate any action that provoked said pain._

_Physical pain once channeled can greatly enhance your nature abilities, but only, for a short amount of time, a variable that depends on how great the pain is. In a way physical pain can be used like a...thermal detonator, it takes little time to muster and use, but once it is spent, the user finds himself weakened and tired, making him an easier target in combat._

_Secondly, there is mental or if you prefer emotional pain. Deep sorrow and grief. Limitless anger and hatred or even self-hatred. And even, to an extent, sadness, contempt, disgust._

_Normally, these types of pain are crippling for a sentient’s body and mind. They are a handicap that make anyone perform at a substandard level. Of course, as Force users our emotions are amplified which can lead to even more harm, more mistakes, which as you know can be critical in life-or-death situation such as combat._

_That is why you Lord Vader like every Sith that existed must learn to use it to your advantage._

_Emotional pain is a constant with greater benefits than its counterpart, it does not need its user to be harmed physically, meaning, your abilities during a fight can stay untarnished._

_It is also self-replenishing as untreated emotional pain nurtures its own self, allowing you an infinite source of power that can increase the more a user is emotionally troubled._

_And finally it can be harnessed and stored to be used passively giving you a persistant edge on any opponent, or, if the situation demands it, the reserve of negative emotions kept in reserve can be unleached at once if said user is mentally primed for it. And in this case, if Physical pain was a thermal detonator then Emotional pain is one of those radioactive bombs the Mandalorians of Old used to transform their planets into barren wastelands during their numerous civil wars you have seen and read in your studies."_

_How can he use something that actively harms him? That sounds impossible, he doesn’t feel the want or need to fight now, he wants to go to the_ _medbay_ _and cry under a pillow until he sleeps!_

_As if he can say that..._

_it would be proof of weakness which his master despises. And so, he can only but utter one simple question._

_“How. Can I. Do_ _that?_ _”_

_To wish his Master can only but respond with_ _enthusiasm_ _._

_“It is quite simple in truth, but from my experiences with past...projects, hard to achieve at first at least for children. That is why I shall accord some leniency for your first try._

_I have given you the choice of either using Physical pain which you currently feel in the form of the electric current coursing through your body or Emotional pain which you already have in great quantity because of your past as a slave and because of our numerous lessons._

_As for the technique. You, Lord Vader, must channel this pain instead of trying to escape it. You must allow yourself to feel it, grasp - it as if you were pulling water out of a well - to the fullest while simultaneously overpowering your body’s inaction and sense of fear with your willpower and calling on the Dark Side of the Force._

_The results of said actions will feed your_ _Midichlorians_ _with greater power than anything you have ever felt yet and allow you to bend the Force to levels you have not yet achieved, allowing you greater agility, reflex, strength and endurance which can allow you as a user to endure_ _punishment_ _that could be fatal otherwise._

_However. Should you not have the willpower necessary to keep yourself in-check, the Dark Side of the Force could overpower you and the pain you allowed yourself to feel would only amplify the consequences of said failure which can lead to...unpleasant results.”_

_Unpleasant_ _results?_

_“Always the curious boy, are we? Very well, I shall enlighten you furthermore on the subject...once you accomplish the task at hand.”_

_It has a thing to do with that cube he has in his hand, surely._

_“Which is_ _Master?_ _”_

_“Arm yourself with the newly acquired knowledge I have provided you with to destroy this_ _Durasteel_ _cube.”_

_Durasteel_ _, the stuff warship armor is made off?! What?!_

_Immediately, the almost benevolent smile of Darth_ _Plaguies_ _vanished in favor of a frustrated, frowning look, and from his experiences with his teacher it was already too much because if he knows on thing about_ _Plagueis, its that he_ _never allowed himself to_ ** _become_ ** _angry so that means he was in deep troubles._

_He shouldn't have broadcasted his feelings so clearly._

_“I find your lack of faith disturbing, Lord Vader. You are a Sith, and I have chosen you of all possible beings on this galaxy to teach. And yet, even after months of training you still have this persistence childish look at what is and isn’t possible._

_It is clear that you are in need of a._ _.. nudge. Hmm?_ _”_

_And before he could muster any excuses, Vader found himself under the psychic assault of_ _Plagueis_ _who ripped apart his mental shielding in a second and plunged himself into memories that he tried hard to burry._

_Then he was being beaten by one of_ _Gardulla’s_ _slave guards._

_Then It was hot and arid; he was thirsty but he needed to keep working or one of them would be punished._

_Then he saw his mother being wipped until her skin was dripping blood._

_Then he was cold and hungry and alone sleeping on the floor begging the cold body of her mother to come back to life._

_And then he was back with the electric slave collar on his neck and more furious than ever._

_He wanted to rip apart this collar that made him appear weak and vulnerable, this pathetic cube, to prove to his teacher that he was more than a slave, and he wanted to rip apart this very room for what it was. And so, he set his mind to exactly doing that._

_He stopped resisting to that infernal pain and allowed it to expand tenfold and he fed on it like the desert fed on raining water, his hands curled into fists and the Force was called and bent to his will._

_He is the one in **control** now._

_The_ _Durasteel_ _cube and the training room they were in started to shake and then the cube was suddenly ripped apart from_ _Plagueis’s_ _hands as he called for it before ripping it into multiple pieces which fell close to the_ _chair_ _he was tied on._

_He could see many things at once in his state, the wide grin on his Master’s face as he once again succeeded in one of his experimentations, the cracks that where starting to form up on the walls, the shock collar fizzing and zapping as he started ripping its components from the inside._

_And then the next moment, everything stopped, it was over. He found himself laying over the floor, numb, emotionally spent, coughing blood off his mouth (He did not remember ripping himself free off the chair)._

_As he coughs, and gasps of air, he can’t help but see his reflection on the shiny and polished complex’s ground._

_“What did I-” His vision was starting to get murked, he was going to pass out from exhaustion, but he needed answers more than ever. “What did I_ _do?"_ _He says words charged with limitless exhaustion._

_To that his Master had but the simplest of replies._

_“You have proven yourself far more worthy of my teachings than anticipated, Lord Vader._

_You will be a far greater Sith than anticipated indeed.”_

_And as he collapses, losing consciousness, the last image registered in his mind was the all-shimmering reflection of a pair of yellow-eyes on the glassy surface where his crimson blood was drying._

_His eyes._


	3. The End of The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one road ends another begins.  
> THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN UPDATED AND FLESHED OUT AS IN THE: <<16/12/2020>>

Another day, another night, another memory. 

How lovely.

Ever since his Teacher released him into the Galaxy, these memories, these souvenirs kept coming back, haunting him during the night, poisoning his few moments of rest with a world of pain that was normally kept on tightly locked for his own sanity. 

Some may say that it is better to confront one’s past to advance properly into the Future. 

Fortunately, he was though better than these band of idiots and naysayers. Pain brings Power. And that power is what kept him alive despite anything and everything that the Galaxy threw at him during these years of exile. 

Perhaps the Force tortures him nightly to nudge him somewhere, maybe toward the light or something similar to that. But that too is a foolish quest, he has no Masters -not even the Force-, only a Teacher, who gave him so much before abandoning him a long time ago. 

And yet even if these memories kept feeding his power, he still wishes to escape the hardships of daily life _for once_ and have _one_ , _good_ , _godsdamn_ _night of sleep..._

Taking a look at his wrist watch, an antiquated machine he uses to get the time when the sun is down, he notices that it is 0430, meaning that in a few quarters of an hour this system’s sun will show itself. No more sleep for the day then. 

Plus, the wind carried a good smell for once, and the main camp was starting to wake up too. If anything, breakfast will soon be served for the company. 

Enough dwelling on the past, he though, he has something far more productive to do this day, and by that he meant passing through a valley without getting ambushed and storming into a fortified city to kill a high valued target. 

In the space of a couple minutes, he extracted himself from his sleeping bag, cleaned his gear and his uniform from mud and blood and loaded everything in his Tornister (except of course his lightsaber, many detonators and two blasters which were concealed in his large pockets), a rigid military backpack made out of synthetic leather. Another relic of a bygone age. 

At last, now ready and made proper, he finally puts on his T-shaped helmet and starts marching on the camp to meet his "brothers-in-arms". 

* 

The walk to the camp was a quick one. After all, being a sentry means that you must be ready for all possible situation, one of them being to rally in defense of the main camp should it be attacked. 

Fortunatly, him being a Force user comes with the added bonus of doing sentry job while sleeping (With the vastly increased awareness and all of that.)

In any case, he soon found himself in the camp’s open mess being saluted by some, and called to banter by others, but he was all but too indifferent. Altough normally he would indulge in these social acts (one of the few things in life that he views as a net positive) today was an exception. His hunger was making his already strained mood quite volatile. 

Summoning a table set and an aluminum dinnerplate with the Force, (Did he have a penchant for the dramatic and the theatric? Undoubtably). He made his way into the field kitchen to get a serving of whatever was being cooked (It smelled good at least, which is quite rare these days).

And... 

It was pan cakes. 

He didn’t get to eat one of those in a very, very long time. 

As if the Besalisk cook sensed him looking at the preparation being baked on the hotplate, he turned from his dough-mixing-and-laying work to look at a baffled Vader with a wide smile. 

“Ahhhhhh. Look who we have here, if it isn’t our _Lord and Savior_ himself. Admiring my work 'ey?” 

No one needed the Force to feel the amount of pride being emanated from the happy Chef, and, to be truthful, it was quite the accomplishment to make a treat of this type in a cold, barren and wartorn world.

“An impressive feat, Dradkha, making pan cakes in a hellhole such as this one is no easy task. I wonder where did you get all the ingredients for these.” 

“Well ya’ know, a bit of Weequay contraband here, buying from locals there, top it all off with what we have and ta-da, fluffy, warm and tasty pan cakes.” He said as he turned some of them on the other side.

“That is quite the treat. On what occasion is this about?” He inquired. After all one does not go through all these troubles just for a munday breakfast day.

“I think it's what you Humans call a “last meal”, all the camp is aware about the plans, mountains and all. Many believe that they won’t come back and they asked me to cook something good.” The Besalisk said with a tonned down voice, with his previously joyous tone being replaced by one full of bitterness, sadness and even a slight hint of anger.

Dradkha is one of the very few individuals in the camp that can be considered as a "good man". Vader learned from the latter that he joined the camp in the first place to make some relatively clean credits as a cook for the group (which unsuprisingly, was inexperienced in the finest arts of cuisine). And so he probably is the one person with the cleanest hand(s) in all the band, always with a smile and in the kitchen preparing something to keep them fed, fighting his own fight, his butcher knife being his weapon and whatever eatable products being his sworn enemies.

To see him in such a state meant that even he knew that blood will be spilled, more so than normal at the very least.

“It was not my intention to ruin your spirits.” He started testing the waters for an answer.

“I know Son, it's just that I’ve seen my fair share of death, and there is only so much a sentient can endure before breaking... like some of the guys here. To be truthful with you, I think once this Op is all set and done and we go back to Endor ama’ go for the retirement plan. Maybe open a restaurant or something like that with the money I earned.” 

Retirement? So long for the decent food, and of course the man behind it.

“You will be missed. And there is no doubt that with your skills, you will be greatly successful.” He replied.

“ ‘Preciate it Vader. Here, lemme get you your pan cakes, we’ve been talking for far too long and there’s still people in line.” 

In a blink of an eye four pan cakes found themselves laying on Vader’s plate with some kind of thick, sugary sirup on them. Having multiple arms sure does have its benefits in multitasking... 

“Ya’ know before you go... maybe you should think about it too one day. Retirement. Like c’mon, kid, your still young you have your whole life ahead of you, not like the rest of these guys. The private security sector pays a bit less than this but it’s a way better life. All you do is protecting Senators, Kings and Republic people in the Core against threats that are nothing compared... _to this life_.” 

Retirement?

What a joke.

Complacency was a weakness, and it is a slow and insidious killer, it is killing the Republic, killing the Jedi Order and it has killed many a kingdom and empires.

If he went to the Core he would go as a conqueror, not as a boy with a retirement plan.

A life in the Core however would mean a life close to the Jedi Order which was impossible beforehand because of his impulses. 

But now that he grew, that he strengthened himself, both physically and in the Force, he can truly change things, carve out his own influence close to the Elites, gather power, make change and get himself out of this haze he plunged himself in.

Wasn’t that what he wanted and couldn’t have? Power? 

A quest such as this one would finally get him to break out of this cycle of self-flagellation that both greatly powers and weakens him, and, allow him to grasp his lost destiny with both hands.

_Do not go gentle into that good night._ He hears the Force whisper to him, as if encouraging him to jump into that unknown. 

And yet, isn’t he a free man here? With no bounds, no allegiances, alone doing what he does best. 

Aren't his chains broken here?

_Is it what you want, loneliness? To die and be forgotten with no one to remember you?_

And yet he wants to carve out his Destiny, he knows there is more out there waiting, he knows that the universe itself is waiting for him to make his moves. 

The responsabilities of a Sith or the Freedom of a man- 

“Vader, are you alright under that helmet? You’re standing here like a deactivated droid.” Said a cautious Dradkha, ripping him away from his Maelstrom of thoughts. 

Little did he know that he, a simple cook, opened Pandora’s box. One he thought would never open.

_Or did you?_

What a blessing that they are in a mountain chain, otherwise all of the camp would have noticed the brutal drop in temperature from his mind ripping itself in pieces.

“Let's say that I was having a great... internal debate over the many choices a man such as myself could have outside of this lawless lands. Thank you again for the food Dradkha. And may luck bring you good fortune.” He threw with the most bland tone possible trying to normalize an already awkward situation.

A sad chuckle escaped the Besalisk’s mouth. 

“To you too Vader, to you too.” 

* 

The pan cakes are a thing of wonder and in more than one way. The camp’s morale is growing by the bite, he could feel it, it is true that in a hard and spartiate life such as this where men are molded into killing machines for the sake of money, fame or anything else really, people take comfort in the smallest of things. And well, pan cakes with dubious sirup is one of them. 

As for himself, he already finished his portion, quite rapidly in fact and also in a bit of an... uncivilized manner. But it's not like one can blame him on such actions, after all, being a Force user really makes you burn a considerable number of calories. 

After a quick cleanup he soon found himself in the officer's tent where all the planning and strategy gets elaborated and put into motion. Unfortunately, the current mood was fighting and shouting, and by the looks of it, it seems that many of the few officers' present where debating about the ambitious-but-frankly-suicidal plan that was to rush through the mountains and storm into the city to kill a certain governor who had quite a bit of a price on his head. 

“It's suicide, we’re going to be ambushed! There is no question to that!” Shouted one. 

“They don’t even know we are here, we could just sneak up, cap the guy in the head and finish the contract!” Replied another. 

“Maybe, but we don’t know nothing of them either, none of their numbers, none of their armament, nothing!” 

And it continued on and on, points and counterpoints, revised tactics, plans, the idea of going back to the King’s - the contractor - capital and abandoning the contract was even waved a few times. 

Personally, he didn't mind a hard fight, there were worst jobs - on a logistical and strategical level- than this that got signed. 

Like for example, putting down that Slave revolt on Tato- on that hellhole of a sand planet on behalf of the Hutts was a mess. He would never repeat the experience of weeks of roaming in a desert while having men die left and right because of the sun and the heat strokes, dehydration and the occasional Tusken raid, while not knowing precisely where you were in those vast - unending - desert plains and where the location of the next supply station was. 

Eventually of course, they found their targets and razed the revolting slave camp to the ground reaping a nice salary - plus an extra bonus for a job well done - from the Hutts which went straight into his “Sky-walker Jr.'s pension and retirement funds”, a nice and fitting name for his hidden Correlian bank account. 

Problem is, he could feel something was wrong on this contract. The feel of threading cautiously was engrained in the Force whenever he touched it to try getting a glimpse of the possible future and he was not very good at it. 

The best thing he got was a sense of betrayal coming. Perhaps the rebels sold their leader to the band in an effort to spare the city? Or perhaps one of the men in the camps is a sellout? 

Better thread carefully indeed. 

All of the sudden ‘Sarge’, the quite imposing Trandoshian - with all the scars on his face and one of his eyes being absent - leader of the Mercenary band appeared, making all the room sush in silence, as they where all anxiously waiting for the final orders which will definitly decide the fate of many men this day. 

_“I_ _jusssst_ _got confirmation that the rebels are occupied with The King’s_ _troopsss_ _elsewhere, I expect minimal resistance and so we will_ **_advance now_ ** _to maximize our sssurprise effect and their lack of numbers.”_ He uttered in his rough-and-though final tone. One that shut the officers out rather quickly, as always. 

_“Everybody out, Vader_ _ssstay_ _.”_ Said the Sarge with a more relaxed tone, interesting, was that about the rookie? 

“Sarge.” 

“ _The boy, in or out?”_

So it was. 

“In with a vengeance, so, a bit worse than "in" actually because now he wants to prove himself and will get himself killed quicker, but that is understandable knowing that you sent him to get lessons from **me**.” 

“ _Always the perceptive Vader, always the perceptive...”_

“I do not understand. Truly. When did you grow a conscience? And why me?” 

“ _I grew one when I found you eating mud and blood for breakfast in the Outer-rim and he reminds me of a_ _sssertain_ _human I_ _sssee_ _before my very eye and maybe I didn’t want him to end like ‘this’ human?”_

_“_ And I suppose that we will eventually hear your retirement plan? You know that Dradkha is leaving us at the end of this contract?” He retorqued, none of the Sarge's latent emotial responses made sense considering his no-nonsense altitude.

“ _I_ _do. And_ _yesss_ _, you’ll hear about it sooner than you’ll know.”_ He said with a solemn voice. “ _Now get ready, we march in 0015_ _minutesss."_

He nodded and got out of the tent with more questions than answers. 

Sooner than you’ll know. 

What does that even mean? 

* 

A hundred and twenty men marching in three columns of forty, in silence while the cold and wind batters them. They do not shiver and they do not cry, they march, in unity, with an iron will and a proud heart. For they know that each one of them is but a small but equally important cog composing a greater fighting organism that has accomplished many a great tasks deemed impossible by others with great efficiency and despite the odds. 

For two days and two nights, they marched, with few hours of rest and meagre provisions to eat. And despite the weather and the physical and mental stress, they kept threading the path, unwavering, uncaring, a task at hand to accomplish was their life, with the only companion following them at all times being Death. 

At last, they almost arrived at the end of the great mountain pass ready to assault the city when he started to feel a great deal of life-signatures over the cliffs and in front of them, an umbushing garrison. And yet they did not fire, perhaps they are waiting for the noose to fully close on the company? 

As he is on the forefront of the group, he had easy access to the Sergeant who was marching beside him, of course it was important for a Force sensitive to be able to share his intel quickly. It made the difference between catastrophe and breakthrough and tipped the tide of battle more than once. 

“Commander, it seems that we will shorty make contact with the enemy. Perhaps we should entrench ourselves in more defensive positions?” 

“ _That won’t be necessary Vader, the enemy’s leader himself will soon come to negotiate our surrender.”_ He replied with an almost...nonchalant tone.

What?!

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” He replied. Finding himself blindsided by the betrayal of the band's own chief.

“ _This mission was never about killing the Governor and taking the city for the King, it was about taking what’s under it.”_

_“_ This is treason and a breach to the contract!” He stressed quietly, no need to throw a tantrum for all to hear. It would put the Op and the group's very integrity at risk.

“ _Vader, the King is creditless, the city is his monetary reserve, and as we ssspeak his armies are disbanding and the entire planetary order is breaking because he has no funds to keep them payed, fed and maintained. We are just some last resort to be thrown away by a desperate man. And where other sssmelled troubles, I sssaw opportunity.”_

_“_ And you tough dealing with the enemy is a good idea? No wonder did you keep this secret. Your going to get us killed!” He stressed with a hightened voice, he would have killed him right here and now for his moronic betrayal if it wasn't for the fact that all these men beside him would turn on him at the second and even if he escaped he would be in the middle of nowhere.

To that the Trandoshian partially turned to see him with his only good eye.

“ _You answer to **me** not the other way around and you would do well to remember that. And, for your knowledge there is enough money in that fort for all of usss. Our surrender will win us millions of credit, thanks to me not you. That. Is. All.” _

As if laying your weapons and getting showered in credits was realistic. Nothing is never, ever that simple. But he had no choice but to acquiesce to that that decision, the noose was one way or another getting closed with him in it.

He was clearly in danger now, Trando' couldn't be trusted anymore, perhaps no one can be.

Maybe it was truly time to pack up and go somewhere else. Back to Concordia maybe?

If he survived this tricky situation that is, surrounded by enemies who themselves were surrounded by enemies, in the middle of a snowy wasteland, far away from his ship.

It wasn’t before long that the proverbial noose around their collective neck was tied. As in, after a few minutes past their discussion, the sound of explosives being detonated behind them was heard, he assumed that any path of retreat was now blocked by a great amount of stone and debris. If there was ever a choice to retreat it is gone now and so, he himself had no choice but to advance with his clueless fools he used to call "brothers-in-arms" toward their impending doom. 

He grasped his lightsaber with a firm hand bracing himself for the catastrophe that was about to come, as the targeted VIP showed himself with a cabal of droids.

Trade Fed' War droids to be precise.

_Soon it will be every man for_ _himself_.


	4. A Dead Man Walks Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even while dying Vader can't have the Force let him go in peace.  
> THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN UPDATED AND FLESHED OUT AS IN THE: <<17/12/2020>>

He was laying down on a puddle of his own blood surrounded by nothing but cold snow and dead men. 

The sickening smell of gunpowder, burned metal and oil as well as spent bullets and plasma combined with death overpowered his sense of smell a while ago and he guessed that this intoxicating combination of chemicals would be the last thing his nostrils will ever taste. 

At least the silver lining on the proverbial plate that is his death would be that he got to see the sky with its shinny stars one last time. 

Fucking idiot that what the lizard-in-chief was, got baited by money and crushed by a meat hammer with no chance to escape. The perfect ambush. 

“ _You have pestered Trade Federation Outer-Rim interests long enough. And so, it sends its regards to your band.”_ Said that Neimoidien with one of their trademarked cowardly smiles.

A massacre that’s what it was. 

Even the Force can’t save you from a well-placed shrapnel-laced detonator. 

In retrospective, he should have focused more on defensive actions, not crushing windpipes and throwing lightsabers at the enemy’s face. 

Can’t help himself but be dramatic, even in his last moments. 

Well, if the Force chose to get rid of him by putting a bunch of metal shards in his chest and letting him slowly die in the middle of nowhere, that’s how it is then. 

“The Greatest Sith To Ever Life is dying in a backwater planet with no one to see it. How do you feel about that Plagueis?” He mumbled, as if an audience from a tragic play was here to hear and watch him as his life ebbed away. 

His vision started to blacken. He was losing conscience. A deadly mix of blood loss and untreated shock probably.

So that’s how it's going to be? 

Honestly, he dreamed of far worst deaths than this. In fact, all things considered, it’s quite a peaceful death. Quiet. Resting. Slowly drifting off... to the unknown. 

And as he slowly dozes off, ideas long repressed are emerging, one that are underneath, unwelcomed and unbecoming for a Sith.

He can't help but wonder if somewhere, in the galaxy, his parents or siblings are waiting for him, maybe staying awake more late at night as they carry the hopes that one day their son or brother would knock on the door and come right through it. 

Some part of him - a repressed part of him - always wanted to feel and give out love. It wanted friends, real friends, it wanted a family, it wanted to unconditionally love and it wanted to be unconditionally loved. 

The other one wanted to be the rightous justice that would strike down upon the weak scum that pestered the Galaxy, it wanted to seize power, to prove itself to the trillions upon trillions of people that inhabit the Galaxy, and to triumphantly say "I did what no other could".

And both those parts that made him wanted to be the best starfighter in the Galaxy. 

They wanted to be the best mechanic and the most talented artist. 

They wanted to get rid of slavery and he wanted to make the galaxy a better place. 

But there was no one for him out there, he had no father, no mother, no teacher, no friends, no lover. And nothing for him here, no power, no goals, no purpose.

There was only pain and death. 

So why continue to live? 

He was a failure both as a being and as a Sith. 

“Come on and take me!" He cried with whatever air was left in his lung "You tortured me all my life might as well finish the job!” He threw up yet again for everyone who was dead to hear. If he was going to die might as well insult the Force properly before going to meet it or join it or going to oblivion or... well he didn't really know but again he never cared about small details such as this one. 

Surprisingly, he got a response in the form of the Force coiling and thickening around him. 

Was his body acting as a Nexus?

All of the sudden someone or rather something spoke.

“ **_No_ **.” Said a clear, pure, Ethereal voice with such great strength it awakened him from his dying slumber as if it breathed some of his life back into him. 

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to insult the Force. 

The next split second, he felt his conscience being violently tugged and next thing he knew he was looking at a small Togruta toddler crying, radiating sadness, and desperately seeking someone through the Force to... appease her anguish. She was alone that was clear, an orphan perhaps? 

Impulsively, he reached out to her and sent what he could muster, that is waves of comprehension and reinsurances, that he was here... for her. 

“ _Dada?”_ He heard.

He could feel how bright, distressed and vulnerable she was. It reminded him of the innocent boy eating dust, alone, in the Dark, seeking an anchor to hold on.

Before he could say or send anything else, he was once again pulled to a different scenery, this time it was a young woman, more or less his age, looking at a wonderful lake that was reflecting the warm, golden colors of a setting sun. 

She was... truly beautiful, a beauty of a rare kind, an art piece by herself, with her petite tail, chestnut hair and graceful tenure. Her spirit however was the greater suprise. He sensed an iron will, an inextinguishable fire of determination that burned deep in her soul, so much so, one could think she was born with it, he also felt the simple selfless desire to do good and also a great amount of loneliness as if... she was alone against the world. 

A feeling he knew all too well. 

Try to change the world and it breaks you.

“ _Is someone here?”_ She turned directly facing him. 

“ _Mi Lady, what’s wrong?”_ Someone almost immediatly replied, but he couldn’t care less by the lesser person, he was totally entranced in the moment. 

After a pregnant pause, the graceful... Angel spoke.

“ _Nothing, I think... it's just my tired head_ _Sabé_ _. Am just...dreaming things.”_ She said with an underline of exhaustion.

Of course he wanted to say no, but he doubted that even if he screamed, she couldn’t hear him. 

As the pretty lady slowly turned to see the lake and its marshlands, he was once again pulled by the Force but this time instead of going somewhere else, he returned to his dying, bleeding body, fully awake, with an energy that wasn't present before. 

Were these visions a work of his own psyche? Perhaps some kind of last ditch trick his mind was throwing together and playing to give him an incentive to survive? 

No. He decided.

It was too detailed, too real. He could feel the remnants of the Force’s brusque and provisional compression that happened mere moments ago. 

If anything, the Force wanted him or rather _**willed** _him to survive. 

And... he wanted to believe in them. These people. That gave him a new goal. A new purpose. He was overjoyed to know that out there, in the universe, they were people waiting for him. 

Belonging. 

He wanted to belong.

_"A familly to rule_ _with."_ Whispered the Darkside to his ear, and it was true. Isn't being on top of the world alone a unique form of torture?

All of the sudden death didn’t seem, or, feel as sweet as before. 

Maybe dying so soon is a bad idea. 

New plan.

He needs to get off this wasteland, and for that he also needs a starship. Unfortunately, his own was left in the main camp which is two days of march away (in good physical conditions), not to mention that the pathway back to it was blocked by a pile of rocks. Even if he could manage to move those rocks he would bleed out while walking to the camp.

So that left him with only one choice, that is, sneaking into that duracrete bunker of a city, blow some stuff up, get his revenge, maybe even some money and steal a ship. 

First of all though, he needs to tend to his wounds and warm himself up before hypothermia finishes the job his bleeding has started. 

As he began to get up from his would-be-grave, feeding on the pain his movements procure him, he couldn’t help but think that the future, for once, has something good stored for him. 

* 

They say that the backpack of a military man must be filled with two types of material: those that help you kill and those that help survive. Fortunately, he had the sensibility to follow this millennium old adage despite his clear lack of self-preservation, as so, his pack is not only filled with all kind of explosives, but also first aid bacta bandages. 

Of course, it is mentioned for the wounded person to rest, so to accelerate the healing process and not aggravate said wounds, but he was going against the clock and time was a luxury (aka not on his side). If these bandages won’t heal him, they will at least slow down the bleeding and buy him time. 

And so, he plastered all of his medical bacta-gauze across his chest and stomach before putting his bloodied and partially torn clothes back on. 

As for the cold, well, the dead do not care about what their decomposing corpses are wearing do they? 

Yes, he salvaged whatever wearable winterized gear was left from his dead comrades. 

Oh, what men can do for their survival... 

At last, now that his medical state has been stabilized – for now - by his hand and his gear been recovered, he found himself ready to get out of this Death Valley and, indeed, this planet. 

* 

Now, a _sensible_ being, an _intelligent_ being, a being _well-educated_ on military matters may one day find himself asking the question: How many enemy combatants can a soldier take on at once, win, and still survive? Two? Four? More? 

_“All available troops move to sector 2-A"_ blared an emergency siren. 

Does it depend on the level of firepower a soldier is caring? To dish out more damage? 

_“What kind of magic is this?!”_ screamed a trooper in awe as Vader reflected his own blaster shots with his lightsaber. 

Perhaps the level of protection he is wearing? To absorb shots that could have been lethal otherwise? 

_“Focus fire! Focus fire!”_ Gave a desperate officer to his shocked troops. 

Or maybe experience? After all an experienced soldier is prone to less mistakes and has quicker reflexes than a recruit. 

“ _Roger. Roger.”_ Answered a pair of battle droid with a nasal voice that certainly shouldn’t belong in a battlefield. 

Well from where he is standing in, that is being blasted from all sides after making a dramatic entrance (blowing up the city’s gate with more explosives than necessary qualifies as one, wait wasn't he supposed to try to sneak in?), it all boils down to luck ~~-and the Force-~~. 

For example, an overstressed guard that doesn’t take the time necessary to aim leads to a stray shot that hits a friendly instead of its intended enemy... 

...a friendly that was sitting close to a fuel depot and was about to throw an activated high-explosive detonator... 

...which causes an explosion that kills many an opponent and knocks out dozens more caught in the blast radius leaving a "relatively" unexposed way open for one of the hangar bays. 

Yes, the different between a gruesome death and a blazing victory often boils down to pure luck. 

* 

He was tiring out quickly, that was a fact, whatever stamina he had after getting out of his cold grave and marching until reaching the city was evaporating by the second now under stress and extensive usage the Force.

Add to that the fact that he is facing a swarm of unending enemies and that his wounds keep on worsening... 

He didn’t have long, only willpower and adrenalin is what keeps him on his two feets now. 

It’s a shame he couldn’t splatter the brains out of the Trade Fed’ puppet and repaint this cursed earth with his blood but, ultimately, he was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He had people to meet, a destiny to grasp and a universe to bend to his will. And dying now in a suicidal attempt to get his revenge would do him no good.

The Force whispered to him echoes of a glorious future. He can hear it clearly.

It wanted him to wake up from this suicidal haze of his, it **needed** him to shape the events of the Galaxy. 

This was not the end. Far from it. This was the beginning. 

Was that the end goal of his venerable teacher? To unlock true power through sweat, toil and tears? 

Yes it indeed was, and perhaps, still is.

In the meantime, he traded his crimson red lightsaber for his blasters, it was safer and less taxing for his body for him to shoot a gun than close the distance, parry shots and hack away at his weak but numerous opponents. 

And so, he went from cover to cover, sneaking, killing and hidding so to confuse the enemy and cancel their numerical superiority. He also passively used the Force to increase his focus and stabilize his trembling arms, making his aim true, which helped him greatly in his task-at-hand, that is, blasting men and droid with no second thoughts. 

In the docks, multiple ships where present. Most, if not all of them, where freighters, which made sense considering the fact that this Kingdom traded its immense mineral reserves for food and other common products that could not be farmed or made locally. He recognized a few at first glance, most of them were Corellian Engineering Corp’ YT class light freighters, (They had a reputation for being a smuggler's ship of choice, as their speed, cargo capacity and excellent hyperdrive made them great blockade runners), unfortunately they couldn’t be hijacked as they were all anchored and needed a key to boot up.

A shame.

He would have loved to get his hands on one of these and pilot it ~~till it inevitably cashes like all of his previous ships~~. 

The prize that caught his eyes in all of the semi-active battlefield however, was one elevated space pad holding a pristine HWK-290 with an open cockpit. These birds, he knew, where bough by all kind of upper-class clients, merchants, politicians and nobles for good reasons, they were highly maneuverable, fast and decently shielded. A must if someone wants to escape pirates, slavers, and... deadly games started by other political rivals.

And he decided that fast was good. Fast was the different between life and death in his current predicament. 

Sadly, being on an elevated space pad meant that it was exposed, without cover. 

Well, shit. 

Taking a quick glance at his trusty blasters, it was clear that he was running out of ammo. Broomhandle was down on its last energy pack and he ran out of ammunition for his revolver a while ago (Gunpowder isn't easily accessible and making a bullet is harder than it seems). Moreover, it doesn’t take a genius to know that the docks will slowly keep getting swarmed with troops until he either dies or surrenders. 

Whatever he wanted to do, it needed to be quick and aggressive. 

“Alright, Alright” He muttered to himself “Live or die, live or die. C’mon. C’mon you can do it. You weren’t raised as a coward.” It didn’t sound as confident as he wanted to be, but given the conditions he can’t really blame himself. 

Drawing power from the fear and cowardice of his opponents who prefered to fight him behind their petty defenses and with a 50 to 1 advantage, he finally made his move. 

Sliding out of his cover, he made himself known to the enemy. Using the surprise advantage he had, he quickly and decisively – with the usage of the Force to increase his mouvement as to sprint at an incredible speed - made it to the base of the space platform where two guards awaited him as if they thought they could ambush him and get him to surrender. 

He disarmed the first one who had the audacity (and the reaction speed) to point a blaster at him by ripping the gun out of his hands with the Force and throwing it out and into the stairs before firing twice toward his stomach at point blank range. And. With a Force-assisted push, used the body of the soon-to-be dead man on his comrade to knock the latter off balance. The second guard, fortunately - for him - met a far less gruesome ending.

Flipping the DL-44 so that he could hold it by the barrel, Vader, violently knocked the man unconscious by hitting him once with his heavy blaster pistol’s grip. 

The affair didn’t last ten seconds, but it opened the way for him to get on the ship, leaving the dockyard’s guard and their reinforcement confused and scrambling. 

* 

Once aboard the ship, he went and made himself comfortable, dropped his bag and weapons on the ground, and hopped to the piloting seat to get the spacecraft up and running.

“Alright, what do we have here?” He spoke to himself with a curious tone. It was exciting. Really. To get his hands on a new ship. 

Every ship has its own character so to speak. 

Little quirks, things, upgrades and faults among other factors that make each one of them different, unique, to the other. 

And he liked discovering them, it's part of the fun of piloting, and a step toward mastery of the Craft. To make it, like his lightsaber is, an extension of one’s self. 

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

It seems that these fools don’t know when to drop the sponge. 

They are firing. At him. At his ship.

With a flip of the hand and a couple of buttons clicked he activated the engine and shields to prevent any one of these hotheaded idiots from getting a lucky shot at some vital component. 

Luck is after all a fickle thing.

“Ignition is a go. Shields are green.” He spoke to himself.

Speaking of being unlucky, he recognized that the auto-stabilizers seem to be broken, how unfortunate, perhaps that’s why the ship was open. Maintenance. If only he had the time necessary to run the diagnostics and the repairs himself.

Bah.

What does it matter? He is no green; he has flown for years _and_ on worst crafts! 

Another flip is deactivated and with the help of the manual instruments on the pilot board, he manages to stabilize the freighter before pulling the stick all the way toward him while slowly increasing the thruster levels. 

And with, that the ship lifted off from hover mode with ease _and_ speed. 

_"Danger: Autostabilizers are deactivated and non-functional."_ Said the ship's automatic alert system.

That won't do it.

1000.

Where is the button to deactivate these fucking alarms?

2000.

Ah, here it is.

4000.

8000.

16000.

32000.

64000.

_Annnnnnnnnnnd..._

The Atmospheric compass stopped working, that means that he was officially safe, and... in space! 

And what a thing it was. 

Home. 

Even after years of travel it still was a sight to behold. The sight of them all, hundreds of thousands of stars, each one being a possible habitable system that can potentially hold thousands of animal and vegetal species, trillions of people and dozens or more so ecosystems born out of millions of years of evolution... 

Yes, what a sight to behold. 

_Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic._

Something was dripping on the ground.

Shit. That’s no good. No good at all.

It was the sound of his blood dripping from his uniform to the ground. He completely forgot his state.

The bandages did their job at least, they kept him from bleeding out completly while he was fighting for his life.

All of the sudden he started feeling tired and dizzy, as if his body finally took the queue of the events that happened these last few hours.

Hopefully there is an aid kit to be found somewhere around this ship, but before that, he needed to get out of this system and go in a planet that a) isn't hostile, b) doesn’t have a Jedi presence and c) has the proper medical infrastructures to heal his critical medical conditions. 

Hopefully by then, if he isn’t dead or permanently damaged, he would make his way to the Core and start searching for the people in his visions (among other things). 

Taking a look at the Hyperspace map on board his NavComputer, he started looking for “hospitable planets to host a wanderer in distress”. 

Unfortunatly, the South quadrant of the Galaxy didn't present many options - a nice way to say it's as barren as Tatooine in term of _civilized_ civilizations - because it's mostly Outer-Rim and Outer-Rim practically a synonym of dirt.

But, surely, even among all the dirt there is a gem sometimes, right?

Surely.

Endor? A no go. Place must be crawling with other Mercs, he would probably get robbed and killed. 

Takodana? Lady Maz is a good host but it’s fairly primitive and unwelcoming for people showing weakness. 

Bespin? Small colony that deals in gas exploitation and refinement, there’s nothing there for him. 

Malastare? If anything, the Doug would roughen him up rather than help him, he scoffed, they are fairly isolationist. Plus, he isn't sure if they would know how to medically treat human anatomy. 

Dead ends. All four of them. 

How about... Naboo? A fairly close Mid-Rim borderline Outer-Rim pacifist world (Now this is a good joke), demilitarized (Even better), fairly developed, has a sizable human population and no Jedi outpost/temple. 

Nobody would go looking for him there, he could take his time to heal properly ~~maybe even rest a bit~~ and the Force sung to him positively that it was the right planet to go to, ~~not that he asked.~~

_Hopefully, I'll be alive by then._ An unbidden though came to mind _again_.

Nonsense that's what this. He has faced worst! All he has to do now is manage to get there in time before he dies out from lack of blood. A simple and trivial task.

“Alright, Naboo it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10K marks hit, that's the productivety am looking for haha.
> 
> Well our Favorite Merc/Sith Lord/Teenager/Survivor is going to visit the planet of a certain queen/future senator... it is not a spoil to say that two world will collide in more than one way.
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter, the biggest yet, if there are any errors i'll correct them in the future.
> 
> I think now i'll switch to my other WIP and put some sweat there.
> 
> :p Sorry for the cliffhanger.


	5. Skyfall

**Chommell Sector**

**Location: Enarc Run - Mid Rim Border**

**_The_ _Kingdom of The Naboo_**

**Status: Elective Constitutional Monarchy; Demilitarized world.**

Doctor Zarr, surgeon by trade and court physician by training, bearer of countless years of studies in the finest and most prestigious medical universities Aldaraan had to offer and ex-lecturer in the medical academy of Coruscant was preparing himself to live another day in service of Her Majesty, Queen Amidala of House Naberrie. 

Another _boring_ day may he add with a sigh. 

Indeed, the Queen, her court and entourage have rarely (if ever) needed his medical expertise, or even worst, his medical intervention since his taking of the post and the retirement of his predecessor who supposedly ‘ _didn’t want to be bored to death_ ’ and ‘ _preferred to live a more exciting life and give in to his all-time passion, fishing_ ’. 

It is the unfortunate truth, medically (and morbidly) speaking of course, that the ruling body and royal government rarely suffer from sickness (much like the rest of the population, Naboo after all, was reputed for its healthiness and high life expectancy).

And if they were sick it was always some kind of benign, common bacteria or virus like the common cold or the flu. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with rest and proper light medication or local herbs with healing properties. 

So, because of the lack of chronic patients, he spends his hours waiting, keeping his medical equipment sterile in case of emergencies as all professionals should and of course drinking Caf’ from time to time while watching the HoloNet. 

It was not a very sophisticated way of spending one's time, but yet again, one must make do with what he or she have. 

At least he can find comfort that his pay is rather ‘important’ and he has open access to the great deal of culinary delicacies the palace’s cooks have to offer, plus, culturally speaking, Theed was a beauty to go through and explore. 

Yet...

Yet, if he had the chance, even with his current lack of practice, he would not hesitate to take a patient even if said patient was in a critical state. Reputation be damned.

What is the point of spending a decade-and-a-half studying the anatomy of more than a dozens of different species only to end up drinking, eating and earning an undeserved pay?

The situation he finds himself in could probably qualified as early retirement.

Oh how he regrets being here, wasting his life doing nothing... but then again, he remembered, there are enough credits going into his bank account monthly to silence such thoughts.

Ah, men of science and their morbid thoughts. A tale as old as the invention of medicine. 

_The good doctor, absorbed by his heavy pondering and by his current watch, an Romantic Alderanian medical HoloSerie, could not see nor hear one dysfunctional spacecraft’s rather **brutal** and **burning** entry into Theed’s atmosphere. _

*** *** ***

At first there was darkness. 

Total. 

All compassing. 

Absolving. 

It was as if he was floating on the surface and waters of a calm, peaceful river stream. 

The waters of oblivion that is. 

He could still hear and smell, but it was though his senses were filtered by a semi-permeable wall of sorts. What he could catch was but a fleeting sentence here, a few words there and the vague but all too familiar smell of burnt metal and hot gas. 

_"By the Gods!"_

_"Someone call for help!"_

" _...could have survived_ such..."

Undoubtably, the ship crashed while he was entranced.

It was a risk to do so, that he knew all too well with the ship’s faults and all, but being in such a trance allowed him to survive a lot longer by preserving what little remained of his forces.

It was as if he rerouted all of one ship's leftover energy to the life support system. Only this time he was the ship and the energy was his life-force.

In doing so he surrendered what little control he had left over his failing body but such was the price of survival. And, in all honesty, his... corpse was already too damaged and weakened to pull itself free. 

He understood the finality of the situation. One that would have made him gnash his teethes and choke someone out of anger, if he had the capacity to do so. 

The future lied not with what he can or could do but in what the Force decided to give. Proving that indeed, he was successfully manipulated by the latter into submitting to the forces of destiny. Or The Force. Or whatever the fuck the trillions of people this Galaxy is home to call this all-incompassing, all-knowing, concious-and-aware power-and-being.

_It_ saved him from his voluntary and self-depricating death, only to put him in another live-or-die situation, this time entirely conceived by _her hands_.

Just so to hammer in the fact that he doesn't even control his own _existance_. Or maybe his rought landing was the starting of another series of events that would lead to some unkown result that would satisfy _it._

Truth be told he did not want to believe in Fate nor in Destiny, he wanted to be in control of his life, trace his own path and if that meant to ignore the Force or even bend the latter to his will then so be it. 

But the Force, as always, cared little of his wishes nor past. 

And he was still not strong enough (perhaps he will never be) to stand up against his own creator, or... parent, if one wanted to use a much straighter word. 

In the end, his resistance was most likely seen as a childish game by the Forces that birthed him, but that doesn’t mean he will simply surrender and give in to the whims of his Mother who wronged him and left him to suffer in some Outer-Rim planet so backwater, so inconsequential, so unimportant that he did not know the name of. 

The distant sound of metal creaking and of a... buzzsaw interrupted his reflections as the previously calm and dark waters he was floating on started to be pierced and agitated by rays of lights that were coming from its profound bowels, troubling his rest. 

The idiotic people he should supposedly consider as “saviors” have apparently a hard time handling a corpse with grace and extracting it from a shipwreck. 

Although if he took the global situation into consideration, as long as they don’t sell him to the Jedi Order or kill him outright, he should assume himself lucky. 

But what does luck have to do with any of this? 

*** *** ***

Zarr couldn’t fucking believe what the fuck just happened, plain and simple. 

One minute he was drinking Caf’ and going through the HoloNet in his office, burning useless time. 

Then Captain Panaka of the Naboo Security Forces, head of the Queen and Theed palace’s security came in through the door with great speed -almost breaking his office's door hinges- and with the look of a man who... well had a major crisis in his hands. 

The Officer didn’t even bother with the civilities, he just asked, no, ordered “How much time do you need to prepare yourself for surgery?” 

Immediately of course he thought that an accident happened, perhaps the Queen herself fell and suffered from a broken bone or something of that manner. 

So, he responded to him with “Four minutes no more no less”. 

After all it was important to be cautious before any operation, bad surprises (such as a slightly desynchronized surgical machine for instance) during tense and delicate moments make up for... substandard results. 

They gave him two. 

At once, he called the assistants and stormed into the surgery block so he could start preparing himself for whatever would soon come to his operating room.

As such, he gave his full attention to his many tasks, that were, activating the medical droids, double checking the surgery machines and sterilizing the whole lot plus the medical tools _again_ , and, of course, washing his hands and adorning his surgical outfit. 

He barely finished securing the room and himself from any potential harming organisms that could lead to a post-surgical infection or complication when quick but firm footsteps started to come closer and closer until the door opened. 

And lo and behold it was yet again Captain Panaka wearing an even graver face (of course) and this time he was in company of no less than four of her Majesty’s handmaidens. 

Those would be Padmé, Sabé, Rabé and Eirtaé if his memory serves him correct. But yet again he might be wrong, after all they were the Queen’s shadows, almost identical physically, speaking the same tone and wearing the same clothes. Making it so that you can never truly know who is who until they decide to give you their name. 

And that was speaking from experience. 

However, the real surprise was not the cabal of spies and spymasters coming to meet him but rather the person that was tied down the repulsorlift stretcher next to them. 

Because that person, that human _was_ _definitely_ _not_ the Queen and it certainly _wasn’t_ benign. 

So here he was, looking at a man, no, boy, being scanned through and through by the best machines Naboo had to offer. 

And what a poor sight it was. 

The lad is his mid-teenager years by the looks of his neck triangle. And yet, he has the looks of a soldier, apparently Mandalorian, (the helmet being a dead giveaway) who survived a fairly bloody battle.

His dark trench coat and tunic were completely torn apart, his trousers suffered the same fate too. However, the general outfit was kept together with bandages that coursed the lengthsof the patient's limbs and joined to form an expertly tied knot in the mid-section of his torso.

Speaking of which...

The upper and mid torso armor plates the patient was wearing were completely busted, bended, as if they absorbed a large quantity of energy suddenly, and the helmet had a few black spots.

It was put clear by all of these observational data that this mysterious patient absorbed and survived a thermal detonator exploding at close range, and if the shrapnel stuck in his legs was anything to come by, a very _lethal_ range. 

The disgusting smell emanating from the kid didn't do anything but reinforce his minute-man theory. A mix of burnt flesh, oil and ozone. It was sufficient proof that he participated in a battle. But when? And where? He couldn't have come from very far with such wounds and yet there was no wars nor conflicts close to Naboo.

Taking a glance at the vitals that started to show in the medical tablet beside the operating table, he froze yet again.

His state was critical yes, but _stable_. 

An extremely slow, but stable heartbeat. 

As if this kid was kept in a medically induced coma. 

That was something. And it added a lot more unneeded questions to the table.

How could this be? Without any proper machinery or support? How is he heart not beating like a mule, trying to put as much oxygen in the organs, with all this blood soaking through his bandages and clothes?

His visual analysis and barrage of internal questions were unceremoniously interrupted by one of two upgraded 2-1B-series surgical droids, it seems that the scan was accomplished. 

Summary:

-Half of his thorax’s ribs were broken. 

-One of his lungs was endangered, close to collapsing. 

-His sternum showed cracks. 

-Twenty-Eight pieces of shrapnel spread along his arms and legs some even managed to lodge in between the armor protecting his upper, mid and lower torso. 

Not to mention the fact that he lost 35% of his blood, which is _critical_ for an adult and almost 100% lethal for a teenager. 

Objectively speaking, and once again, this patient X should be dead, plain and simple. Yet this...god amongst men is _alive_ and _stable._

He truly didn’t understand. Humans are not meant to take on this much physical punishment and live. 

Which begs the question, the final question, would this unknown boy live through hours of heavy surgery? 

He would have laughed at the face of anyone asking his professional opinion on the matter even a few minutes ago, but now... 

Well, now he has a job to do. Saving a life. 

Setting his toughts and emotionial rolercoaster asside, he started to concentrate on the task at hand.

He took a deep breath and started giving orders to his organic and inorganic assistants. With a calm he didn't know he had.

First of all, Blood transfusions were in order. 

*** *** ***


	6. An Uncommon Day for The One Behind the Throne

Who knew that long periods of peace could be interrupted in mere hours? That  Theed , one of the most peaceful, calm and stable cities of the entire mid-rim would start boiling with rumors and gossip? 

And of course, who knew that a spaceship would crash mere feet's away from the Palace?

Well she didn’t know that per say, but, on the other hand, if there is one thing she _did_ understand, it’s that the universe is an erratic place, that life doesn’t follow a simple, rationale line of thought and that world changing events can often be spontaneous.

Alas, you can never be fully prepared for the latter.

“Your Majesty, with all my respect and as your security chief, I still think this is an extremely bad idea.” 

And as the _elected_ leader of a world, meeting problems head-on is her duty of course. And she loved doing that... most of the time that is.

This one problem however is definitly not classified in the ‘enjoyable to resolve’ part. Mostly because of the weaknesses and troubles plaguing the servants of the crown that this particular mess exposed.

Somehow, one ship crash managed to put the fear of the Gods back into the Palace’s heart. As if they were welcoming and harboring a plague that could decimate the people of Naboo within the week or so.

“Captain, I do indeed understand where you are coming from, however, it still is my responsibility, not only as a Queen but also as a citizen to take care of the maimed and wounded. And I believe the best option we have is to let whomever this...  _ Sky-Fallen _ is to stay in our care until he is in a state to decide otherwise.” 

Panaka always the fearmonger...in a way it was his duty after all to be concerned of the smallest potential problems. That is why she didn’t blame him or despise him.

However, she was still annoyed at his heavy insistence to just get rid of the issue and dump it somewhere else.

“Your Highness, whomever this man -if he even is a man in the first place- may be, it is clear that he does not have an innocent background. He had in his person more than four  vibroblades hidden in his boots and sleeves, two blasters and even a Jedi lightsaber. More so, we have not managed to obtain a single piece of information about him. Not a single name, no planet of birth and no family. We even tried fetching his identity or find that of his relatives by taking a sample of his DNA, but not only did we find that there is no one related to him by blood alive or dead, but also, that half of his genome is missing!” 

Yes, she bitterly though, she was very much so annoyed,  exasperated even.

“Captain, I have read your  _ many extensive  _ _reports_ on the situation. And from what I understand, you see him as some kind of biological weapon project that went rogue, that or a freak of nature perhaps?” 

“I meant no insult toward him your Majesty but surely you must understand that him being present is a major security breach and risk. Doctor Zarr’s report post-operation was quite clear on the matter, the extensive injury the boy suffered on their own should have been lethal and yet even with that much trauma, the patient still managed to survive a heavy surgical operation. Add in the fact that he is healing far too quickly for a human being and that he shouldn’t even be alive genetically speaking-” 

“Captain Panaka this is enough. 

I have taken into consideration all of my security and medical detail reports which I repeatedly read and reread until exhaustion for many a night since the start of this supposed emergency. 

I understand the collective point of view of both my protective services and the medical staff, and I understand your fears on the matter that is the nature of the patient. 

However, that is where my understanding ends. 

You might have forgot that I believe in the inherent goodness of sentient beings, and in the face of the unknown, I prefer to see him as a boy like any other in need of help rather than some loaded weapon that must be feared and avoided at all costs. And it is my duty, once again, not only as Queen of Naboo but also as a hospitable host, seeing as he landed mere meters away from the Palace’s steps, to treat him as any citizen and nurture him back to health. 

Failing to do so would be an insult to the very culture I swore to uphold. 

And in the off-chances that he is timed-bomb, do you think getting rid of him to less competent medical authorities would solve anything? He would just ‘explode’ and inflict casualties that could have been avoided by us. Why? Because we chose to sacrifice the many for the benefice of the few. 

And after all isn’t this Palace the most protected location our capital has to offer? So, there is clearly no better place to stop this so-called danger, if the latter wants to harm me."

She sighted and took a deep breath to continue her monologue, maybe by the end of it he will finally understand?

"Lastly, this matter is purely local and benign. I am not going to invite Jedi, Republic interferences  _ and _ unwanted attention to our peaceful planet. Our internal affairs are our own and nobody  else's . 

Not to mention the public will see it as weakness. 

So, to answer your inquiries, no, I do not want this patient to be deported because of my detail letting fear rule them rather than compassion. Am I being sufficiently clear?” 

She didn’t like to flex her so called monarchical authority on the staff that is supposed to protect her, however, this matter has gone on for far too long. And some people’s skulls are far too thick, necessitating a proper royal monologue to make them understand.

And it seems that the Captain understood the point she was trying to convey and acquiesced by the looks of his eyes, at last. 

“Yes, your Majesty, very well your Majesty.” And he said no more, no less.

“Then you are dispensed for the time being. Thank you, Captain.” She replied with the regal, professional tone she nurtured since her early days at the Legislative Youth Program.

And with that, after a quick and proper salute  Panaka left the throne room, leaving her alone if one doesn’t count the company of her obligatory handmaidens of course. 

(And of her tired thoughts after a long day of work.)

It was a very troubling week in an otherwise peaceful series of months, the last crisis being the sudden explosion of Outer-Rim refugee using Naboo either as a gateway to go other places or as a haven to flee war and poverty. 

This emergency, altough far less urgent and important, has still managed to leave her eyes and brain exhausted with all the reading and research done to fully understand the situation, after all, as her mentor used to say, if one is to understand and resolve a problem one must study all its aspects. 

And so, she followed his paternal advices and read all the medical and security reports, plus, a couple of crash courses concerning the realms of human anatomy and biology just to be on the safe sides of things. 

It was true that their concerns were not unfounded, for this unknown patient defies the medical rational by his very existence, however abandoning one’s ideals out of fear simply because said problem is temporarily unexplainable and shrouded in mystery is foolish.

It is rather disheartening to see that her agents, who are supposed to be the best and the brightest Naboo has to offer, bent their morale in the face of a supposed danger. One that does not conform to any norm, yes, but to betray one's own principles that easily and in the space of a few days?

_That_ was the greater danger in her opinion concerning this situation.

But what about him, this  _ Sky-Fallen _ , the Colo claw fish in the room? 

A young boy, a mere teenager just like her. Wearing equipment and weapons befit of the Mandalorian warriors of yore she used to study about and wounded almost beyond the point of non-return. 

It was indeed a sad and new sight to be sure, she has seen the misery that weighted on millions of galactic refugees, she has seen extreme poverty, starvation even, but this type of consequences concerning war, that was a new sight for her.

She has never truly seen the true consequences of warfare, just destroyed cities already cleaned up months after battle was led and finished. And yet; just by seeing this one human being she understood the crushing weight it bears on those who choose to lead it. 

The cauterized scars and long healed wounds betraying the fact that the young boy in question was a surviving veteran, meaning that he started as a child soldier... 

The emaciated, scrawny body showing its rib bones quite clearly, a clear sign of significant malnutrition... 

And that smell, the smell of death and despair, that emanated so strongly from him, from his burnt flesh. It was filthy and repudiating. Even after being washed it didn't leave him, as if he was marked by war and death forever.

All of this is exactly why she advocates for peace, to let pen and word triumph over sword and battle cry. So that families may never be ripped apart and innocence crushed to the point where people, younglings, are reduced to nothing more than the very weapons they use to kill each other with.

And then you end up with warrior falling from the skies, prematurely entombed in their spaceships waiting to be buried despite still being alive. 

Such tragedy.

‘Perhaps a visit should be payed?’ she though, after all the daily matters concerning state affairs were finished and there wasn’t anything left to do. 

Maybe, with some luck, and if he is awake considering his extraordinary recovery speed, she could indulge in a bit of small talk and try to shine a light into this mystery of his. And for once, it would do her some good to focus on something else besides ruling.

Only before that, a change of clothing is in order.


	7. The Folly of a Young Sith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am back, finally. Now that I have a couple of weeks of vacations I can return to writing without being stressed by life n' school.
> 
> In any case enjoy this new chapter :D

_He was once again walking the hallway leading to his Master’s Sanctum -_ _Plagueis’s_ _private room - with dread as his only companion._

_Each time he was summoned there signified that a next step, a great step, has been taken toward his path as a Sith. But he didn’t know what exactly has happened for him to be summoned this time._

_A few minutes ago, he was but battling assassin and battle droids in the training room while sleep deprived for more than a couple of day or so – another training regimen – only for him to receive a firm mental nudge from the senior Sith along with the message to come to_ **_that_ ** _place._

_Of course, the loss of concentration in such a critical situation, did absolutely not result in him being almost gutted out by a serrated blade coming from an IG-series droid. It would have been somewhat... anticlimactic._

_In any case, the dread was so strong now that he was at the double black main door’s feet that he practically forgot his lackluster performance and his lack of preparation for such an event, he was after all dressed in training uniform that was radiating a foul smell produced from all the effort spent. And yet, knowing he couldn’t stop the inevitable, or delay his master’s order any further, he took a deep breath, gathered the force, and opened the doors to the nest with a force push._

_“Ah, young Vader, welcome.” said the elder Sith who was sitting behind a sober but luxurious desk on an equally sober and luxurious chair._

_He could never forget the room even though he only came here twice, it was akin to a library with a great number of Sith relics, parchments, books and_ _holocrons_ _sitting on bookshelves made out of black wood, or at least something akin to it. There was also among them a variety of exotic animal and vegetal species put inside sumptuous jars and submerged within a white liquid that has, he guessed, preservative properties, so to keep the organic bodies from deteriorating and rotting away._

_The Sanctum itself radiated power, with simple colors, those being red and black dominating the living space. The latter was mostly filled with various tapestries and statues of antique origins, although here and there between the walls pieces of small golden furniture could be found, no doubt here because of the Dark Master’s taste and heritage, he was after all a Muun._

_All in all, the place could be described as between two worlds, the past and the present and in the middle was the one who synthesized the knowledge of both eras to advance his schemes and power._

_He was indeed, thoroughly mesmerized by the place, and deeply, he wondered if it’ll become his one day._

_But this was neither the place nor the time to day dream indeed._

_And so, he knelt down and tried to make his voice as respectable as possible, for he knew his training would have made it hoarse and tired._

_“My Lord, I have been summoned.” It was not a question, merely an affirmation -of a truth- as the Force coiled around them in preparation for a revelation only Plagueis knew about._

_“Indeed” He replied with a paternalistic yet amicable tone. “Lord Vader, you have made great strides in your path toward_ _Sithhood_ _since the day I found you that day in that wasteland of planet, have you not?”_

_It was a purely rhetorical question that needed no answer from the receiver. He continued._

_“In a space of a few year since your training began, you have acquired a great mastery over the Force in such a fast pace, faster than anyone in the entire Jedi order no doubt. You have surpassed your physical capabilities innate to your specie and age too, and your skills with the lightsaber are equal to that of a young knight despite being twice younger compared to the Jedi norm._

_And yet...”_

_He tapped his fingers on the desk while his genius mind was at work, accounting for probabilities, events, reactions. Building and rebuilding sentences at a microsecond’s notice in order to materialize his thoughts the clearest way possible._

_And then the tone, the timber of the voice, switched to one of calculation, of cold planning._

_“Plans, yes. A great number of plans put in motion centuries ago, the culmination of all the Sith order’s effort since Darth Bane, will soon come to life in mere years and will see the total restructuration of life as we know it under our rule. Our New Order. But now more than ever, every plan must be perfect in planning, flawless in execution for the final act to pass.”_

_“But you Lord Vader have not proven ready for the tasks at hand.” He announced with a most neutral voice, as if it was a simple observation._

_And yet, it was like a hammer hitting him square in the chest. Immediately putting in doubt all of what he though was earned. Was he being dispatched like all the other failures? Has he failed as an apprentice? Was this the end of the road in his short and painful life?_

_But although fear threatened to swallow him whole, he stood there, affirming the same position he had taken since he entered the room, not wishing to beg for his life even in the darkest of moments, preferring to die with honor rather than_ _prolonge_ _the inevitable with pathetic and foolish pity._

_And for a moment of solemn silence, he just stood there, immobile, as if he became one of these statues that were dotting the room, waiting for his final judgement._

_At least until_ _Plaguies_ _allowed himself to show the smallest of smiles while his piercing eyes continued to scrutinize him with an intensity never felt before._

_“Very good Lord Vader. Your mastery over your instinct is to be noted. But eliminating you is not the reason I have brought you here, there are after all rooms dedicated for shedding blood, you yourself should know that._

_No, I have brough you here because even though you have acquired and mastered theorical knowledge quite easily and efficiently, you still find yourself short of one vital element that can easily triumph above all._

_Experience._

_Droids, virtual simulations and other tools of learning, although excellent at teaching the basics of what one must know, are ultimately no match to the venerable trial by fire. And so, for the first time since that fateful day in Tatooine, you will be unleashed upon the galaxy.”_

_Then Plagueis, took a moment to let him absorb the knowledge and the vast responsibilities that came with it, before continuing._

_“You will not know the safety of my domain anymore Lord Vader. You will sweat, you will bleed, you will kill or you will be killed and in that struggle you will either learn and prosper in those circumstances or you will wither and die._

_All of the skills you have learned, deception, infiltration, combat, should be and will be summoned and put to the test, and only then when I deem enough time has passed will I let you come back into the fold, not as mere acolyte, not as a mere experiment, but as a true Sith Lord. Worthy of the honorific title I have bestowed upon you when you chose ambition over the petty slave weaklings who you once called friends and allies._

_And so I ask you, where do you want to go?”_

Where do you want to go? 

Freedom. 

Choice. 

Ambition. 

Power. 

Purpose. 

He will show the Galaxy his power and he will obtain victory against all the odds set in his way and only then, when all his foes are vanquished by his hand will his chains be broken and the Galaxy molded into the proper shape it deserves. 

And what better way to do so than to start his new path in one of the oldest cradles of war known to the Galaxy? 

_Mandalore_ _._

_Am going to_ _Mandalore_ _._

**Author's Note:**

> Its my second fanfic ever, I just had this idea in my head for a while and I wanted to write it down and see where does it go.
> 
> In any case enjoy. (and if there any spelling mistakes i'll be sure to correct them at a latter date)


End file.
